La Belle Dame Sans Merci
by Ariana Malfoy- Lestrange
Summary: “ And so,” I finished lamely, “ as crazy, and slightly stalkerish it sounds, I think you are my new inspiration.” Orla surveyed me, for a minute, her astonishingly light agate colored eyes not breaking contact with mine. Dean ThomasOrla Quirke.


Author's Notes: La Belle Dame sans Merci literally translates into "the beautiful woman without mercy", the title of this fic, and my favorite poem by Keats, which I used. It's an Orla Quirke/Dean Thomas fic, challenged by seren, on the HMS WATT and I like it, actually. :D Yeah, interesting ship...the first fic of it's kind!

* * *

La Belle Dame sans Merci

I first saw her, one slightly blustery day in the fall, sitting on a bench in Hyde Park.

What was I, Dean Thomas, doing in Hyde Park? I was looking for the ever-elusive inspiration that had eluded me since Ginny left me, almost a year ago. The day after she left, I tried to paint, but I _couldn't_. It was as if I was stuck in a rut, light bulb-wise.

And it killed me, not being able to paint. It really did. It wasn't as if I _needed _to paint, my inheritance from my long-dead father provided for me more than comfortably. After all, while before I found out my father was a prominent pureblood wizard, in my sixth year at Hogwarts, we had lived rather nicely enough, but once I became of age, and inherited all the money, as well as the large manor house in Devon, I could have nearly anything I wanted. So I didn't need to paint to earn my next dinner.

No, painting, or drawing, or sculpting, or any of those mediums, they were sort of a release for me...like they are for most artists, but then again, I never did consider myself an artist. Art wasn't a way of expressing myself, it was a way of taking raw emotion, and turning it into something substantial, something I could see, and touch.

But my muse had deserted me. She really had, because Ginny Weasley _was_ my muse. She was my art. She was the one who unchained those emotions that turned into _art._

So here I was, Dean Thomas, age twenty-one, sitting on a chipped bench in Hyde Park, on a caffeine high, and very much sleep deprived, with a sketch book on my lap, and a perfectly sharpened pencil, just waiting for some idea to pop into my head.

_O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,  
Alone and palely loitering?  
The sedge has wither'd from the lake,  
And no birds sing. _

I must've waited there for about a half and hour, just praying desperately for something, anything to hit me. I tried sketching the trees. Didn't work. Tried sketching the way the noon sunlight hit the glasses of the tiny little old man fallen asleep at the bench across from me, while his little Scottie dog raced around, and chased the birds. Still didn't work. I silently cursed her, cursed for leaving me like this, unable to draw, unable to create.

_  
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!  
So haggard and so woe-begone?  
The squirrel's granary is full,  
And the harvest's done. _

And then, I saw her, just as I was about to chuck my useless sketchbook in the pond, and I was about to leave.

She was sitting, about ten feet away, near the little old man who I had tried to sketch. She had her legs crossed, demurely, and her dark hair was pulled back in a simple chignon, out of her face. She had a pensive expression, and beside her, were a small leather book, and a pencil, with a slightly chewed eraser. I felt like I had seen her somewhere before...only I didn't have the faintest idea where.

She fascinated me.

I studied her, for a long time, to find out the root of my curiosity. It wasn't as if she was stunningly beautiful, contrary to it, actually. She had an air of quiet simplicity about her, which made you look twice, but she was no Aphrodite, or Ginervra Weasley, for that matter.

That's when I figured it out. I was so captivated by her, because she was the very opposite of Ginny. She was the epitome of simple- while her hair was a glossy dark brown, it was straight, and pulled back, so that her face was defined, her complexion flawless, without the constellation of freckles that I had loved on Ginny. And she seemed to be willowy, this one, tall, slender, and delicate. Like she could break if I touched her.

When I went home, later at dusk, after she left, I went straight to my paints, and I must've painted for hours, and hours. I painted pictures of girls with porcelain faces and dewdrop wings. I painted chewed erasers, and worn leather books, and willow trees. I used clean lines, straight lines, as opposed to the harsh, jagged, and swirls I had used pre- Departure of Ginny.

I had motivation again.

The next day, I went, right after I had a quick breakfast, in the hope that again she might be there, so I could once again draw off from her.

The day passed, by without sight of the dark haired girl who had so inspired me. Just as I was ready to give in to despair, and burn all my paints, Fate called her into to save me, and my paints as well.

She came from the southern path, walking, as if her head was in the clouds. It was a slightly...not dreamy look, but a removed-from-reality look. She sat down, at the same bench she sat at yesterday, with the same leather book, and the chewed pencil, but a curtain of dark hair masked her face when she bent down to write something. I watched her again, for a few minutes.

* * *

When I sat down, at my usual spot on my favorite bench in Hyde Park, I noticed something a bit out of the ordinary. The tall man I had spotted yesterday was here today, again. I smiled to myself, and wondered if he maybe found his niche in the park too. I noticed that he looked a lot less tired than he had a day ago, and that he had a sketchbook in his hand.

Turning my thoughts away from the complete stranger, I forced myself to try and focus on my writing again. Thumbing through the well-used leather journal, which served as my notepad for all sorts, I read snippets and snags of not yet finished poems, or abandoned stories. I sighed, and tapped my pencil against my knee, wondering when some genius insight would come, and knock on my door, saving me from ever having to do silly page six gossip column stories for the Daily Prophet ever again.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the tall man get up, almost hesitantly, and walk over to me, and my bench. I stared up at him, wondering exactly what he was doing, and when he would say something.

At last, he held out his hand. " Hello, my name is Dean Thomas."

Automatically, I shook it. "Orla Quirke."

He looked at me, like he was trying to remember something. "Your name sounds familiar."

I raised my eyebrow. " Really? Not many people have the name 'Orla Quirke', I would think."

Dean sat down, next to me, still looking at me like he was trying to place my face somewhere in the sea of people. There was a short silence.

"Do you know Harry Potter?" I asked, suddenly, surprised that it even came to my mouth. He nodded, looking surprised as well.

"Yes, I do...Hogwarts?" Dean asked, glancing at his feet, I could tell, hoping that I wasn't some Muggle who happened to know a guy named Harry Potter.

I nodded, and said in a low voice "Ravenclaw." Then I remember where I recognized him. He was one of Harry Potter's friends, the gang of Gryffindors.

He smiled. " Coincedence, isn't it? Two Hogwarts alumni meet in Hyde Park."

"Yes, it is a coincedence. Why are you here anyway?" I blushed, not wanting to sound rude. "I mean, well...Hyde Park is a Muggle park...you really don't see many of our kind around here often."

Dean looked up at the sky, and sighed a world-weary sigh. For an instance, I regretted asking.

"I came here to find inspiration." he said, leaning back.

I looked at him. "And did you find it?"

He smiled again, and opened his sketchbook. "Yes. Yes, I did."

* * *

It was like all of a sudden, I began telling her my story. Showing her my sketchbook, explaining to her through my uncompleted pictures exactly what I felt after the Departure of Ginny. She listened, without saying a word, but she was one of those special people who can listen- and who listen well. Her eyes poured over the pictures, and she unconsciously twisted a little silver ring around, and around on her thumb. I made a mental note to include that in one of my next paintings.

"And so," I finished lamely, "as crazy, and slightly stalker-ish it sounds, I think you are my new inspiration." Orla surveyed me, for a minute, her astonishingly light agate colored eyes not breaking contact with mine. She stood, carefully collecting her book under her arm.

"Right. Thank you, but I'd rather not be anyone's muse right now, let alone practically a complete stranger's." she said coolly, turning to leave.

My heart sank. This was exactly what I feared. "Orla! Wait!" I jumped up from the bench, catching onto her arm as she walked away. " Wait, please, Orla."

She turned, and glared at me. "Excuse me, Mr. Thomas, but it would be helpful if you let go of my arm."

"I can't paint without a muse."

"Then go find another muse!"

"But...muses aren't found, muses are made!"

"Look, Mr. Thomas, I do not want to be your muse."

"You don't even have to do anything! Just sit there, and I'll be happy."

"I said I do not want to be your muse, Mr. Thomas! Now will you please, let go of me, and stop bothering me with your absurd nonsense!"

I let go of her, extremely disappointed.

* * *

_I see a lily on thy brow  
With anguish moist and fever dew,  
And on thy cheeks a fading rose  
Fast withereth too._

I took a couple steps away, and then the pity took over. I felt bad for the guy, I really did. But I didn't feel bad enough to become his 'muse'. Oh no, it sounded far too complicated, and I was commitment-phobic anyways, so it would've never worked.

I took another couple of steps. Then again, I could relate to him in that sense that inspiration had eluded me for a while too, after the death of- yeah; well I knew what Dean was going through. And that alone made turn around, and say "Mr. Thomas!"

He turned too. "Yes?" Dean couldn't disguise the hope on his face, and right then and there, I knew I was suckered in.

"I'll do it. But only because...well...because I need a muse too." I said, hoping that I wouldn't regret this spontaneous decision.

Dean looked confused. " Wait, you paint too?"

I shook my head. "No, I write. Well, I did write...I haven't written something I really liked in a long time though. I guess you could say I need inspiration too."

"I see. Well, I know I kind of just really met you for the first time, but would you like to come over to my home? My paints are there...you can see what I've done so far."

Taking a deep breath, I nodded, knowing if I opened my mouth, I would refuse.

He broke into yet another smile. "Great! Come on, let's go..."

I sighed inwardly, and really, really hoped that Dean Thomas did not turn out to be a creepy serial killer or something like that, because I was getting addicted to his smiles.

* * *

Upon arriving at the manor, I ushered her in, and brought her almost straight to the ballroom, in which I liked to work, because of the lighting, and the sheer space I was given.

She walked around it, stepping over the paint-spattered drop cloths I had placed on the marble floors, pausing, and taking a look very carefully at each of the canvas paintings, or sketches I had lying around.

Orla stopped at one of my best portraits of Ginny, with her at the lake. She studied it, all the while clutching her notebook to her chest. Then she turned, very slowly.

"Mr. Thomas," she said, very seriously, "you are very, very talented. After seeing your work," she gestured around the room, "I would be honored to be your muse."

I had her sit on a leather ottoman I had one of the house elves bring in, with her notebook and pencil in hand. I began to paint, watching her with one eye, and painting with the other.

Presently, the compatible silence in which we both worked was broken. Instead of writing, Orla was staring at yet another picture of Ginny.

"Did you love her?"

"Yes, I did." My reply was short, and I had hoped it would end the conversation, but sadly not.

"You really did, didn't you?" she said, looking around, "I'm sorry, that it didn't work out."

And it was as if this sentence opened something within me. Like a rant, I began talking, and talking, and talking.

_I met a lady in the meads,  
Full beautiful - a faery's child,  
Her hair was long, her foot was light,  
And her eyes were wild._

"I still don't know why she left. She really didn't give any other reason for it either...just one day, left, like that. Took all her things, left me a note on my night table. 'Dean, I'm sorry, but we both need to move on.' I couldn't think for days straight. It just didn't make any sense, we never fought, we were perfect for each other, we really were. She was my muse. And she knew that. She knew that I couldn't paint without her, she knew that! And yet, she still left me. Left me alone, here, to languish in this house, with my now unused paints, and memories, of her, everywhere."  
  
_I made a garland for her head,  
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;  
She look'd at me as she did love,  
And made sweet moan._

"It was like, when I was with her, it was another world, a faraway land that you only read about in books, and such. I was so isolated from reality, but I was so happy here, just with Ginny, and my paints. We were happy here. Well, I thought she was."  
  
_I set her on my pacing steed,  
And nothing else saw all day long,  
For sidelong would she bend, and sing  
A faery's song._

"But I guess not, huh? I mean, happy people don't up and leave just like that, they don't. So she must have not been happy here. But oh, she kept me trapped, Orla, even when she was gone, she kept me trapped in that world, that world that she had created, and that I worshipped. And it was so hard to get out of it."  
  
_She found me roots of relish sweet,  
And honey wild, and manna dew,  
And sure in language strange she said -  
" I love thee true."_

"And I wanted to make her happy, I really did. I wanted her to be the happiest person on this earth, and I tried to do that, I tried my very best to make her as happy as she made me. Ginny was my air, Orla. She was the reason I lived, the reason I painted, the reason I breathed was Ginny."_  
  
She took me to her elfin grot,  
And there she wept, and sigh'd fill sore,  
And there I shut her wild wild eyes  
With kisses four. _

"And then, to have her just leave...it was horrible. Look at me, I still can't get over it, and what, it's been almost a year now?"_  
  
And there she lulled me asleep,  
And there I dream'd - Ah! woe betide!  
The latest dream I ever dream'd  
On the cold hill's side. _

"Ginny was supposed to save me, Orla. But instead, she destroyed me." I stepped back, and looked at my painting. All the while I ranted, I had painted too, without seeing what I painted.

She just looked at me, her eyes filled with something I could not put my finger on.

_I saw pale kings and princes too,  
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;  
They cried – "La Belle Dame sans Merci  
Hath thee in thrall!" _

And she finally spoke. " Dean. What you've spoken of just now...it's what love does to everyone. But Dean, by letting yourself think that Ginny was the only muse for you, by allowing yourself to think that since Ginny left, everything else you love must go with it- it's not right, Dean."_  
  
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,  
With horrid warning gaped wide,  
And I awoke and found me here,  
On the cold hill's side. _

I looked at her, and I really looked at her for the first time.

" You're right, of course. Ravenclaws are always right." I said, "There are many more muses in the world." I looked at Orla, again, and realized that she was very different from Ginny, something I had known all along, but it struck me as a good thing. I took a tentative step towards her. _  
  
And this is why I sojourn here,  
Alone and palely loitering,  
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,  
And no birds sing._

"Orla?" 

" Yes, Dean?"

" You won't try to shut me in your world, and leave me there, will you?"

" No, Dean." This was spoken very low. "I'll set you free."

And I believed her.

* * *

Author's Notes: So...? And by the way, for those of you all who didn't figure it out, the poem La Belle Dame sans Merci, ties in with the story because for Dean, Ginny was the "beautiful woman without mercy". ;) 


End file.
